


Sixteen

by witchway



Series: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [4]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demon!Tony, Happy Ending, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchway/pseuds/witchway
Summary: WARNING: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed is, overall, a "Snugglefic."It is about things that you were taught your whole life were normal, and the compromises you make to feel normal, or at least pass for it.This is a story about a young boy and an ancient spirit.  About lies and truths.  And sometimes, confronting truths is frightening.But overall, this is the story is about growing.In 1986 the world was a different place than the world you live in now.  The world grew.  You might not realize exactly how much.In 1986, Peter is growing too.  At sixteen, things will start to FEEL a little different.And snuggling. Remember, The Thing That Lives Under The Bed is about snuggling.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Starker - Relationship, Tony Stark/Peter Parker
Series: The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823884
Comments: 28
Kudos: 84





	1. The Masked Librarian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrstarksbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstarksbaby/gifts).



> This lovely art is by none other than the incomparable von_gelmini.
> 
> Please enjoy my snugglefic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The long walks into the forest were spent, as they had always been spent, daydreaming about being a superhero like Batman or Superman (not like an Avenger. The Avengers were kind of boring, because they were real.) Matthew DeSlaughter said many of the Posts were famous treasure hunters. Peter daydreamed about finding buried treasure and becoming fabulously wealthy so he become be like Batman. He had always admired Batman the most, whose superpower was being smart.
> 
> But now he daydreamed about the Post boys, and how they had competed in magician’s duels to see who would become the Patriarch of the family. At least that’s what Matthew said. Peter imagined what it would be like to be the master magician, the one who studied all the books, and knew all the spells. And Tony talked about a spellbook called the Das Buch Rothenburg that was so scary no one after Nehemiah Post could read it all. But Peter would read it. He wouldn’t be afraid. It couldn’t be scarier (he reasoned) than an R rated movie on HBO. He would read all the spells, even the ones the other Post boys were afraid to learn. And he would win every time. It would be just like getting all A’s in science."

**The Masked Librarian**

After his sixteenth birthday, Peter used his birthday money to buy several notebooks and spent the summer filling them up with the facts he had gleaned from Tony, along with the books he had gotten from the libraries. For fear they would be found, he wrote a lie in bold marker on the covers: 

**Novel Ideas**

**(Ideas For A Novel)**

Putting a timeline together with the information he got from Tony was impossible. Tony was far more concerned with his duties around the farm than who was actually ordering him around. 

Peter’s constant questions finally made it clear – Tony had never been terribly concerned with _whom_ he was serving, as long as he was fed and had a job to do. Who was the son, nephew or uncle or son-of-the-uncle of whom ultimately did not concern him. The title of “Master” wasn’t passed on directly from father to son in every case, although it was, Peter finally ascertained, only given to a male blood relative of the original Post homesteader. There were other problems, too, with the things Peter was being told. Tony had no interest in years or wars or anything in American history that Peter could plot along a timeline. Peter quickly learned there was no point in asking “which war?” Tony had never understood which wars were which, just that men sometimes left for them. To Tony, _all_ the wars were “The War.” To further complicate things, Peter strongly suspected that New York City was referred to as “New Amsterdam” by the Post family long after it was really called something else.

What he could find in the libraries was sparse. The best he could find was the same stories they had been told when they bought the house: that two Post brothers had come from Germany and married a woman who was related to the royal family in Portugal. That the boys were always taught German in honor of the patriarchs and the girls Portuguese, for the same reason. That a Post had been a famous hero in the Civil War until he died by Direct Encounter With A Cannonball. No other details.

Until the 1920s. _That’s_ when things got interesting.. The Post Homestead, at one time, had been a type of artist colony, which was to say, the sprawling Post family were famous for inviting artists to live, sometimes for years, as guests in their multi-generation household. This had started out as a series of artisans hired to tutor the multiple Post daughters. Over the decades this had become a tiny thriving community. Mostly painters and sculptors, according to the books, but there were musicians too. This had caused a conflict between the Post family and the town – for a period of the time the Post Homestead had been bringing in jazz musicians at great expense, much to the delight of the tiny artistic community. To the town at large, not so much. (Those of the African American persuasion were welcomed to come and work in Devil’s Hollow, but _not_ “let the sun set” upon them. The Post Family apparently did not share those same reservations.)

What happened after that was hard to piece together. Tony wasn’t around to ask, and even if he was, he might not have known the answer. But the death of Jedediah Post certainly must have been a turning point. 

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Peter because that was the most newsworthy event he could find. Jedediah Post was a man of considerable wealth, and left a great deal of it to the towns around him, as well as three different museums in New York City. But none to Devil’s Hollow. The amount of art the family had amassed was significant, including paintings, sculptures and something called “art deco” which, as far as Peter could tell, involved a lot of very fancy furniture. The donations were large and it was easy to track down stories about them. Some of the museums in New York City he had even been to, although he had never seen the art in question (he was more of a Science Exhibit man himself) but some Aunt May had seen. 

The breadth of the donations was breathtaking, but mostly Peter’s research turned up bitterness and resentment. Jedediah Post had left nothing to the Devil’s Hollow library, nor the museum (there had been one in those days) nor the school. Apparently After-You-Die Donations had been a local phenomenon in Devil’s Hollow, particularly from the Post family. That ended, it appeared, with Jedediah. 

Was there a reason? Did Jed Post attempt to create an artistic community at the Post Homestead, and resent the town’s undue influence on whom he was allowed to invite? Or did he simply make more friends outside the boundaries of the town than in? And was that why the sprawling Post family all relocated elsewhere? Whatever had happened, sometime in between the 1930’s and the 40’s the last Post son was living there completely and utterly by himself. 

Was he hated by the townspeople because he was a hostile misanthrope, or did he become a hostile misanthrope BECAUSE he was hated by the townspeople? Whatever had happened, the Post estate had gone from a busy, noisy, bustling place to a house with one resident. Evan Post.

Evan Post… and Tony.

When Peter wasn’t pouring over his books he was remembering what it was like to be wrapped up in the arms of the thing that lived under the bed. Which reminded him of his promise to the thing that lived under his bed. He took long walks daily, getting sunlight and climbing every available surface that looked climbable, doing all those things that he had been promised would make him “healthy.” Exercise by itself was boring, but the further he could walk the more wildlife he could observe. The higher he climbed, the same. Aunt May started to call him “The Spider” as he came home daily reporting all the wildlife he had observed from dizzying heights. The exercise did him good, it made him hungrier at night and soon he had grown several inches and put on more weight. He admired himself in the bathroom mirror, he enjoyed standing on the scale. 

He was proud of his new body. 

He couldn’t wait to show Tony.

The long walks into the forest were spent, as they had always been spent, daydreaming about being a superhero like Batman or Superman (not like an Avenger. The Avengers were kind of boring, because they were real.) Matthew DeSlaughter said many of the Posts were famous treasure hunters. Peter daydreamed about finding buried treasure and becoming fabulously wealthy so he become be like Batman. He had always admired Batman the most, whose superpower was being smart.

But now he daydreamed about the Post boys, and how they had competed in magician’s duels to see who would become the Patriarch of the family. At least that’s what Matthew said. Peter imagined what it would be like to be the master magician, the one who studied all the books, and knew all the spells. And Tony talked about a spellbook called the _Das Buch Rothenburg_ that was so scary no one after Nehemiah Post could read it all. But Peter would read it. He wouldn’t be afraid. It couldn’t be scarier (he reasoned) than an R rated movie on HBO. He would read all the spells, even the ones the other Post boys were afraid to learn. And he would win every time. It would be just like getting all A’s in science.

But when he sat in the trees, overlooking the place that had once been the Post Artist Colony, he couldn't help but think about other things. He thought about what life had been like for his friend in the years between Jedediah and Evan Post. Which led to even weightier thoughts about what life had been like for Tony in the years between life in the monastery and life with the stylite Simeon the Elder.

Primarily, Peter thought about Tony, and what Tony liked to _eat_.

In the monastery, it appeared Tony and the others (the ones he called “us”) were fed just like guard dogs. Or more correctly, like hellhounds. They were fed on cattle and “infernal vapors” and, on rare occasions, people. All until he was sent to live with Simeon on a pillar where he learned how to feed entirely on feelings.

Peter went over it in his head many times, the things Tony had said about Simeon and his other monk-lover, the one he had left behind without a single thought. Simeon he had loved, Peter was sure of it. “I was his beloved,” Tony had said. (He had also spoken about touching, about pretending to be shy, about needing to be ‘taught.’ Peter tried not to think about that, but he did. He thought about it a lot.) 

Peter went over it in his head many times, the things Tony had said about Simeon and his other monk-lover, the one he had left behind without a single thought. Simeon he had loved, Peter was sure of it. “I was his beloved,” Tony had said. True, he might have loved Simeon the same way he loved the fields of cattle being raised to feed him, but he loved the man nonetheless. Spent 12 years with him on a pillar, when he was supposed to be convincing him to return to the monastery. Protected his ability to ask questions. Took away his hurt and his desire to hurt himself. Lived on that, and nothing but that, until the day he was forced to kill the man. That was something he could not control, Peter was certain, any more than he could control being after “sent into the ground.”

The next thing he knew, he was working in the New World. Was he fed with farm animals, too, working on the farm as he did? The only thing Peter could think of was the roaring twenties and the artists that lived and created at the Post Homestead. The layout of the little artist colony was easy to see from his vantage points in the tops of trees or in his hiding place in the empty barn. Barns, silos, and animal stalls had been razed and almost a dozen cottage-like guest cottages built by Jedediah in his day, only to be razed to their foundations by Evan decades later. Had Evan despised growing up in that cacophony, unable to find a quiet place to himself, destroying all vestiges of it in his old age? Or had he treasured that life, growing up in the safety of his title as son of the lord of the manor, removing the artists village when he finally understood he would never see the likes of it again? Had he hated people as an old man because he had hated people all his life? Of had he considered the composers, painters and sculptures the ‘normal’ people, and hated the people of Devil’s Holler’ because they were anything but normal?

Even knowing what Evan Post had done, Peter could still sympathize. He himself had to go to school with boys his age who complained that the “for’ners, queers and [n word redacted]” were taking over the country. Not that it mattered, because soon they would be invaded by “the communists.” Peter was subjected to endless lectures about “the communists” from people who couldn’t find the USSR on the map. Was called a pussy for being concerned about acid rain, but a weirdo for not fearing the “for’ners, queers and [n word redacted]” in the city. So he sat in silence and day-dreamed about the day he could go to college in New York City and be surrounded by “for’ners, queers and [n word redacted]” again.

Peter tried to picture it, sitting up in a tree and observing the whole of the Post Homestead. A little village of people, creating, despairing, hoping, disappointing, arguing, loving, scheming, fearing. And Tony underneath it, grazing on it all. Tony spoke of feeding from artists after the work was done, or else the work would never get finished. Did he know it instinctively? Or did he learn through trial and error? How much art was never complete because he fed too soon? It couldn’t have been much, the finished artworks that DID come from the Post Homestead were legion. Did the artists even know they were feeding Tony their light? Was it voluntary? Mandatory? Tony remembered a grandmother that called him “ _a musa_ ,” The Muse. Did they think Tony was the _cause_ of the art that was produced in this place, or did they realize he was simply growing stronger from it?

And where did the _money_ come from? The Post Homestead was an actual farm, and then one day it wasn’t. Were the artists all brought here because Jedediah Post was a very rich man, and knew what he wanted to spend his wealth upon art? Or did Jedediah invest his money into feeding Tony, which in turn made him a very rich man?

And how difficult was it for Tony, feasting on the light of sculptors, painters and controversial Jazz musicians, to learn how to live on nothing but the hate and fear of Evan Post? What did that turn him into? Tony readily admitted that he had driven off everyone who had come to live in the Post Homestead before Peter’s family, driving them away because all he wanted to drink was fear. Couldn’t stop seeking out fear, _causing_ the fear, even when he realized his own greed was driving away his only source of food.

And he had tried to inspire fear in Peter and his little family of three, Peter remembered. When his quiet family moved into the vast house they decided, that very first night, that there was a good reason why the Post Homestead was considered haunted. Their quiet country home was anything but quiet. It wasn’t _as_ noisy as their New York City apartment, of course, but still not _quiet_. Not only did walls creak and doors slam in empty rooms, but entire wings groaned and floorboards squeaked in the exact rhythm of footsteps. The wind howled under the porch like an angry monster. The first night in their new home not a single member of the family slept a wink.

So, naturally, the little family sat at the breakfast table the next and formulated a plan – a research plan. That very day they set out for the tiny town library, got library cards, and searched out books on architecture. When the library proved lacking they drove to the next town and did the same. Soon Peter had a pile of books to read and May and Ben set out to fix up their Still-Quieter-Than-New-York-City farmhouse. Peter found the books fascinating, had read them to May as she worked in the kitchen or Ben as he worked on the fences, but when those two ran him off he mostly he found himself reading out loud to himself in his room.

And, just like that, the noises quieted down.

The wolves, too, that had howled with alarming frequency when they first arrived (alarming because they had been assured there _were_ no wolves in the woods anymore) dried up the very weekend Peter had come home with an armload of books about canines. At the time it seemed to Peter that he had superpowers. Whatever alarming phenomenon their haunted house produced, Peter could make it go away just by researching it. He joked about it with Aunt May as he read to her about plumbing at the breakfast table (the obvious reason for the growling sounds coming from the basement.) She called him “The Masked Librarian.” 

Now, he realized, he had been doing something else entirely. Tony had lived on a diet of fear. But Peter was only providing Tony with questions, the joy of gaining new information, followed by more information. The thing Tony called “light.” 

Sometimes Peter wondered if Tony would be happier in a household with more emotional displays – Peter knew that “light” was not simply the positive emotions. In addition to fear and hate, Tony fed on anger, sorrow and righteous indignation just as well. But Peter’s little family had certainly put Tony on a strict diet. May was stubbornly, sometimes grimly, cheerful whereas Uncle Ben raised his voice so very rarely Peter could remember every single instance. Peter was by far the most emotional of the trio, reading books about pollution that made him cry, about endangered animals and lead-gas poisoning that made him so angry he felt like punching the walls. Tony had requested _all_ of those kinds of books, had requested laughter and tears and anger and questions. 

Had requested everything but fear.

He had described Peter as ‘fearless,’ and in many ways that was true. Maybe Peter had inherited some stubborn, determined optimism from the same ancestor as Aunt May, or maybe he had learned it hanging onto her apron strings. In any case when he had first discovered that there was a voice talking to him from under his bed, fearlessness and determination had certainly served him well.

But now that the thing that lived under his bed had a name and a backstory, Peter certainly felt some real fears creeping in.

Especially as the season that Tony had told him to wait for came creeping in, a sixteen-year-old Peter was aware of some budding feelings. His body, he was told, would be changing. He thought he was prepared for that. But he was finding, much to his alarm, that his _brain_ was changing too. Watching the foxes chase rabbits from his perch high in a tree, or watching the owls devour their prey whole from his hiding place in the barn, Peter poked at those fears gingerly, teasing around the edges. The edges of those fears. The edges of those worrisome things.

All his life, it seemed, pretending the fear wasn’t real had served him well. Now he wasn’t so sure. Normally, when Peter Parker was alarmed by something, he looked it up at the library. But he wasn’t sure there were any books on _this_ subject.

So he did the only thing he could have done. The same thing he had always done. He made lists. He reviewed it in his brain. Reviewed everything he knew about Anthony. Everything he knew about the thing that lived under his bed.

As he went over the story in his mind, he found himself making another list. A list with three things that he decided _not_ to label ‘fears’ after all. He decided it would be more expedient to label them ‘regrets.’

Alright, three. Maybe four.


	2. Three Worrisome Things, Alright Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to von-gelmini for my amazing artwork.
> 
> PETER is worried about returning to the castle, but von-gelmini knows that castle is too beautiful to resist...

****

**Three ~~Fears~~ ~~Regrets~~ Worrisome Things. Alright Four.**

**First ~~ _Fear_~~ Worrisome Thing:**

When the day came and Tony could come out from under the bed, he was going to ask Peter to return to the castle. This was a worrisome thing.

Peter had said no the last two times Tony had asked. They had already roamed the castle hand in hand, Peter telling Tony the story from Dracula, Tony pointing out how many features a castle and a monastery had in common. And they had stargazed in the courtyards, one of Peter’s favorite pastimes. Having a friend like Tony was a dream come true, someone to talk to, who didn’t mind his endless lists of facts or even his endless questions. Someone he _wanted_ to hold hands with.

But every dream of the castle ended up in Tony’s bedroom, the chamber of the menacing voices intoning eerie words in other rooms, the chamber where things happened that Peter wasn’t entirely sure about. In the last castle-dream they had both lost their shirts, Tony describing that the skin-to-skin contact was a type of feeding for him. They had lay in each other’s arms that way, kissing (but it wasn’t _really_ kissing, it was just _feeding_ , Tony was just **_feeding_ **) and whispering for hours. The lack of shirts was not a worrisome thing at the time, because it was only a dream. Because it was only a dream, it didn’t matter.

But when morning came Peter always began to doubt himself. The _first_ time they had met in the castle-dream was the very first time dream-Tony talked to him in full sentences. That next night, real-Tony was speaking in full sentences. Maybe Peter was fooling himself when he said that the dreams didn’t matter. What happened in their dreammeetings might very well have real-world consequences. And then there was the second worrisome thing...

**Second Worrisome Thing:**

Mainly, that the very first time they _had_ been in the castle Tony’s hands were doing wonderful things, roaming over Peter’s back and shoulders and waist and arms and back to his waist… feeling Tony’s hand on the small of Peter’s waist was the most amazing feeling. It was a memory he treasured late at night.

Once, but only once, Tony’s hand had strayed lower and Peter, in a moment of panic he couldn’t even explain, had stopped him.

And he regretted that deeply. He dearly wanted Tony to touch him there again, only he had no idea how to ask.

**The Third ~~Fear~~ ~~Worrisome Thing~~ Definitely A Fear: **

The biggest question of all, perhaps, and that was the little matter (that was definitely _not_ a little matter) of the voices that whispered in the other rooms.

 _“In the Master’s Chambers, there are no secrets,”_ the voices intoned ominously, and Peter had never, not even once, worked up the nerve to ask Tony what that meant, or why they were even there. Sometimes when those voices echoed Tony actually looked worried himself, as if he, too, were trying to work up the nerve to say something (but that was silly. Tony was fearless.) Sometimes Peter tried to convince himself that he had heard the voices wrong, but that seemed a little ridiculous. Then there was little question of who the ‘master’ might be. Tony called him “Master Peter” and “Master Doctor” all the time, but that was just because Peter had explained all the things he had learned in his advanced classes in NYC and Tony insisted that this was the equivalent of a masters or a doctorate in his own time. Mostly Peter just took it as a teasing reference to how much Peter had read, or perhaps a backhanded show of gratitude for reading all those books aloud to Tony. Besides, Tony had said on the first night that he was the master of that place. And it certainly was not _Peter’s_ bedroom. It was Tony’s ‘chamber’ and if in his chamber there were no secrets, well…

…that was problematic. Because Peter was developing secrets.

Secrets from Ned. Secrets from what few kids at school decided he was worth talking to now. Secrets from his teachers. And although Tony wasn’t around to talk to, Peter was keeping secrets from him too.

But worst of all, Peter was keeping secrets from May and Ben.

Keeping secrets from the kids at school didn’t feel like a weighty sin, that was certain. Especially since all the boy’s talk about kissing girls or reaching under blouses and sweaters sounded pretty made-up anyway. And keeping Missy Lovelace’s secret felt like a GOOD thing, not a bad thing, especially since she had sworn Peter to secrecy anyway. A heroic thing. About how she didn’t miss school because she kept getting the flu. Or how her real name was “Hortense.” 

And keeping secrets _from_ Missy Lovelace also seemed more like a virtue than a sin. 

Peter had always been fascinated by words, and he found Missy’s last name an endless source of amusement. It was spelled L-O-V-E-L-A-C-E but was pronounced “Loveless.” Peter always found himself rolling his eyes at the irony. Never in his life had he met a girl so obsessed with love. She was “in love with being in love,” Uncle Ben said. She was a “romantic” Aunt May said. But to Peter she was just annoying. Nevertheless, he kept the secrets.

Like how he didn’t _want_ to hold her hand as they walked home from school, and blushed furiously if anyone mentioned it. How he really didn’t even think of her as a friend anyway, since the only movies she liked involved kissing and she didn’t read books at all. How he prayed every day that Mike DeSlaughter would walk home with them too because then he wouldn’t have to fight constantly to keep his hand safe from hers.

And keeping secrets from his other neighbor, Mike, felt more like self-defense, also fully justifiable. Like pretending he liked Westerns just as much as Sci-Fi. Pretending that he was just as interested in handguns as Mike was, and was probably going to receive one on his birthday too. Mike’s father had actually gone to college to study chemistry and was now a professional exterminator, which meant Mike was often good for a good science-based conversation. Just as long as Peter could keep the stranger parts of his personality under control, the parts that had made him so unlikable when he had first moved to Devil’s Holler, he felt like Mike DeSlaughter was a pretty decent school-friend. Besides, Mike was _really_ funny. 

Once upon a time, the Post Family had owned magic books from two different continents explaining how to control and command demons. Peter wished there was a book explaining how to control and command his own weirdness. He had checked out  How To Win Friends And Influence People  from the library but it was of little use. All the things he liked and was fascinated by hadn’t been invented in 1936.

And keeping secrets from Mike had paid off, in any case. When the boys had dared Peter to go into the abandoned shed it was Mike who had warned him against it. He hadn’t listened, but at least Mike had made sure he understood that the whole thing had been a prank.

But keeping secrets from May and Ben just felt wrong.

But he kept it up steadfastly. For some reason it seemed _very important_ for Aunt May that Missy Lovelace be his “sweetheart” or that he be “sweet on her” or something like it, and so he let her go on believing it. Or believing that when Peter said he had been “hanging out with the boys” he had really _had_ been having fun with the other boys in town, instead of being pranked with the magazine in the abandoned shed on Chimney Hill.

That was just one more of the multitude of secrets Peter had now, weighing down on his neck like an iron collar. At least when Tony came back out from under the bed, he could share some of them. But not all of them, of course. 

The secret of what happened in the shed on Chimney Hill, which no human being knew, and Tony would never know it either.

As the days approached when Tony would appear again, Peter still dreamed of the shed, even though the prank had happened the very last day of school and an entire summer had passed since then. If he had that dream he would hurry out of bed and sleep in one of the bedrooms in the hall. It was one of _those_ kinds of dreams, the kind of dreams he didn’t even want Tony to know about. 

Which brought up another thing that was weighing heavy in Peter’s brain. The other thing he had heard the ominous voices intone other rooms as he lay relaxing on Tony’s bed in the dream-castle. 

“ _When the master commands…_ ” those voices had chanted, and just thinking about it made Peter’s skin prickle. 

It was true that Tony called Peter “Master Scholar” and “Master Doctor” and no matter how often Peter tried to explain the difference between a high school and a university education Tony would not budge on the subject. (Of course, Peter never got tired of being told that his high school subjects made him better informed than scholars that Tony had met, how could he? He glowed under Tony’s praise. He lived for it.) But Tony was the master of that castle, and this brought up weighty concerns in the evening hours that lasted Peter throughout the day. 

Tony was a killer. Of that there could be no doubt. In the monastery he had killed and fed upon the bodies of heretics, apostates, lovers and rivals. He had killed his own lover Simeon, albeit gently. 

For Evan Post, Anthony had slaughtered pigs (although, Peter reasoned, those pigs were going to be slaughtered anyway.) But Tony had also killed Evan’s neighbors, sometimes for the minor crime of asking him when he was going to get married. Although Peter could certainly relate (he sometimes felt similar feelings when the old biddies at church asked him if he had a ‘sweetheart.’ _Why_ was everyone so desperate for him to have a girlfriend?) he was still horrified at the idea of killing a person. Peter was often called a “tender-foot” by the more polite adults of Devil’s Holler. Aunt May said that meant the same as “tender-hearted” but Peter had the idea it was really along the lines of “pussy” and “nancy-boy.” Because he was a little obsessed about the fact that there were now more than 880 plants and animals on the endangered species list. Because he was depressed that the Bengal Tiger was being hunted to extinction. Because at 13 he cried when he found out that his friends’ families raised rabbits because they were going to eat them. 

“ _When the master commands_ ,” those solemn voices had chanted from hidden rooms, and the very memory gave Peter chills.

Tony had asked Peter to do difficult things before, although it had only been in the dream. Had asked Peter to follow him into the pitch-black passageway. Had asked him to lie beside him on the bed. And every time Peter had found he _could_ do it, _if_ he looked directly into Tony’s eyes. 

But what if Tony asked him to do something… _bad_?

“ _When the master commands_ ,” those voices had whispered. Had threatened. “ _When the master commands, what else can the servant do but obey_?”

Whatever else Tony was, he wasn’t human. Whatever else he wanted to do, he might want to do bad things. And he might be able to command Peter to do those bad things. Evil things. Unnatural things.

And maybe, just maybe, Peter might _want_ to be told to do some unnatural things.

But as September was well underway and the date that Tony had called “Mabon” drew near, the fourth worrisome thing was that thing that was foremost on Peter’s mind. 

**Fourth ~~Worrisome Thing~~ Regret: **

For all the things he had learned the night Tony had fed from the vein in his neck (while pressing Peter to his chest, while holding Peter in his long, strong arms) Tony had never, not even once, fed that way in real life.

And that was a problem.

Not at first, of course. The first time Peter had entered the dream-castle he still found himself afraid. Afraid of the old memory of too-young-to-be-reading-this-book-Peter and the terrifying idea of being in a vampire’s arms. Held close. Held down. Held helplessly, unable to move away from the stronger man whose arms were locked around him.

But Peter was sixteen now. And not-too-young-for-that-book-anymore-Peter had other ideas. And while it seemed like his sixteen-year-old body had ideas all its own, embarrassing ideas that often forced him to go sleep in the guest beds (so as not to share those secrets with Tony) Peter’s brain had set out on one solid course.

Tony had _offered_ to feed on Peter’s light the way Dracula fed on Johnathan Harker’s blood. Had offered once, and never again.

 _This_ year, that was going to change


	3. Mabon

**Mabon**

As the day Tony called “Mabon” approached, Peter was very busy. Busy storing up books, and magazine articles, the kinds that made him laugh and the kinds that made him furious _._ Silent Spring . Several articles about Chernobyl. (He had bought multiple magazines with articles on the topic of that when they visited New York City. The subject made him want to punch holes through walls whenever he read about them, but it was worth the money. He knew Tony would love it.) Busy writing down copious notes about memories in his notebooks, both happy and sad, cheerfully preparing to give each one up to Tony. 

And just as judiciously he kept a careful eye on the animal population, both wild and domesticated, around the house. The number of barncats were getting out of hand, both May and Ben had noted, but Peter tried to discourage them from taking action, reminding them of the rat population down in the basement. The rat population he, Peter, was _supposed_ to be in charge of (that was another one of his secrets. He had led them to believe he was interested in becoming an exterminator, just like Mike DeSlaughter’s dad. When they asked him HOW he could possibly want to be an exterminator when he couldn’t even stand the idea of raising rabbits to eat, Peter patiently pointed out that Mr. DeSlaughter was the only adult he had met who had read  Silent  Spring. Mr. DeSlaughter, Peter reminded them, understood _why_ the Bengal Tiger going extinct in Bangladesh should matter to the humans living in upstate New York.

Which wasn’t a lie. Peter actually did appreciate the fact that, in the DeSlaughter house, no one thought Peter’s obsession with environmentalism was a weird thing. In fact Mr. DeSlaughter suggested Peter should get a science degree and work for the EPA. Peter really liked the DeSlaughters.

But that’s NOT why he was in charge of the rat traps in the basement.

The truth is Peter had been actively sabotaging the rat traps in the basement. He wasn’t trying to rid their household of rats, in fact he was doing everything in his power to encourage them. He needed them for Tony.

For the week before the 21rst of September Peter sat next to his bed, reading out loud to the darkness under the bed. He read  Hitchhiker’s Guide the Galaxy  and _Mad Magazine_. They were long, lonely nights. Sitting on the floor. Leaning his head against his bed. Reading aloud to himself for hours into the night. Reading to the silence. Waking in the morning to trudge, exhausted, to school to spend the day planning on reading deep into the night again. Head aching from the lack of sleep. Heat aching from the loneliness of Tony’s absence. Wondering if anyone knew he was acting like a crazy person. Wondering if it had all really been a dream.

Until that night. Four nights before the date circled on his calendar. Sitting cross-legged on his floor and complaining bitterly about an article on endangered species, he heard it.

“ _Peter_ …”

Peter’s heart leapt. His breath quickened. Then, with a grin that reached from ear to ear, he closed his National Geographic and dug out from his pile of books the thing that he had been saving for ages.

“Jonathan Harker’s Journal.” He read with a smile. “3 May. Bistritz. Left Munich at 8:35 P.M., on 1rst May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train…” 

He read almost all night, until finally 4 AM came about and he had to give up and crawl into his bed. The next morning was the morning he did something he had never done in his life. He had faked-sick and convinced May and Ben that he had to miss school. 

Sleeping all day made that night so much easier, giggling his way through _Life The Universe and Everything_ while keeping one arm fearlessly under the bed, waiting to feel Tony feed. About 1 in the morning he finally felt it, that tiny, sandpapery tongue on his wrist. After that, he had trouble concentrating on his book. For hours he alternated between reading and talking to Tony, telling him about his many adventures that summer as he felt his friend feeding at the pulse on his wrist, sometimes lapping, sometimes… ah yes sometimes… sucking.

And so it went. By night he fed the thing under the bed. By day he gave himself pep-talks and stern talking-tos. 

He was different now. Older. Stronger. The boy who had chickened out around Tony, more time than he could even count, was gone. That boy had been replaced. Replaced with a young man, more experienced, more knowledgeable, more confident. Peter wasn’t a kid anymore. Peter was going to get some answers. And Peter was going to make some demands.

It was a Friday night when it happened. Two full days before Mabon. Peter didn’t know _how_ he knew, but he knew. As darkness fell, he stood up from the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. Over and over again he reassured himself. Told himself to be brave. He was dressed in his long pajama bottoms and a button-down pajama top. He had planned this outfit for a month. He wasn’t backing down now.

With a hiss and a whisper Tony emerged from under the bed. Peter kept his eyes steadfastly closed as the inkblack cloud arose. He breathed in the comforting smell of earth and burned incense, but did not look until he felt the bed sink under Tony’s weight. Only when a human-like hand reached for his hand did he open his eyes and smiled at the figure beside him.

They sat very close together, smiling, their foreheads together, and greeted each other in whispers. Sometimes only Peter spoke, letting Tony suckle the last two fingers on his left hand. He couldn’t seem to stop touching Tony’s face, tracing the dark lines of his eyebrows, his cheekbones. The face was pale and hollow and painfully thin, but Peter knew it would soon change. “My sweet one, how you’ve grown, you’ve become so strong,” Tony whispered and Peter glowed under the praise. “You will feed me well, you will make me powerful. I will serve you so well. I will be your beloved, my master scholar. My library-pilgrim…”

“I keep telling you, I don’t have a Masters degree!” Peter scolded when Tony fit Peter’s fingers into his mouth again. Peter felt like giggling with delight, even as he started to describe the parts of his science class that were actually getting interesting. He couldn’t stop smiling. As the September days had dragged on so painfully slow, he had begun to think that Tony had only been a daydream. A kind of nasty invisible friend that Peter should be praying to God about. (The boys in the First Devil’s Church Sunday School were always reminded they should pray for God to deliver them from their Dirty Thoughts.) Now _those_ doubts felt like dreams. He kept Tony’s forehead close to his forehead, kept his hand close to Tony’s face.

Finally Tony let Peter’s fingers slip away from his mouth. They held each other’s hands tightly, Peter looking deeply into Tony’s eyes.

Then Tony looked sadly behind him. Looked at the pillows, then looked down at their clasped hands.

“You have conjured me, and I have come. I am your servant, Master Peter. I would I were your beloved,” he whispered. 

Then he looked up at Peter with dark eyes.

“Am I no longer welcome in your bed?”

Peter squeezed Tony’s hand, took a deep breath, and then stood.

There was something he had planned on saying right at this moment, the words he would say as he unbuttoned his pajama shirt, but the words dried up in his mouth. Something about the promises Tony had made in his bedroom in the dream-castle, promises he had never kept.

The words didn’t come, so he unbuttoned his shirt in silence. He had planned on letting the shirt fall dramatically to the floor, but at the last minute he lost his nerve and left it on. 

But words or no, drama or no, the look on Tony’s face when Peter silently climbed into his lap was absolutely worth it.

With a hungry growl that made Peter’s spine light up like stars, Tony’s mouth descended upon the vein in Peter’s neck as his long fingers starred over Peter’s back and pulled him close.

Tony fed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read more about the book Silent Spring and the bravery of Rachel Carson.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silent_Spring
> 
> And, in case you're wondering, the reason Mr. DeSlaughter, the professional rat- and snake-killer, gives for why the "Bengal Tiger going extinct in Bangladesh should matter to the humans living in upstate New York" is not the same as Peter's. Peter naturally mourns the death of the beautiful tiger. Mr. DeSlaughter, a student of the moral lessons of Silent Spring, knows that the extinction of one species will have an adverse effect on the food chain with results that cannot be understood until the damage is already done.
> 
> If you do NOT know the story of how the pesticide DDT nearly erased the Bald Eagle population, I encourage you to learn it.


	4. The DeSlaughter House --  I Didn't Do Anything Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At 14, Peter made friends with the thing that lived under the bed.
> 
> At 15, Peter came face to face with the thing that lived under the bed.
> 
> At 16, it was no longer under the bed...

“I didn’t do anything bad, I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t _tell_ him to do anything bad. I didn’t tell him to do _anything_ …” Peter chanted it to himself like a prayer as he walked as fast as his legs would go, ignoring the burn in his calves, ignoring the stitch in his side. Soon the pain in his lungs was going to become a problem, but mostly he ignored that too. 

He was good at ignoring things he didn’t want to know.

The gravel road seemed longer than it ever had before. He ran until he simply couldn’t run anymore. Then he walked. And as he walked, he prayed.

Sweat stung his eyes and he cursed himself for the hundredth time. If he had just let Uncle Ben drive him to Mike’s house, he would be there by now. It was a 45-minute walk, normally. He was hoping the adrenaline caused by sheer unbridled panic would make him run faster. That was what happened to the Incredible Hulk, the science magazines said. A mutation exacerbated by the onslaught of adrenaline. Peter couldn’t possibly have more adrenaline than he had right already, but it wasn’t making him incredible. He needed to be incredible now.

But he _couldn’t_ have asked Uncle Ben for a ride, he explained to himself for the hundredth time. How would he explain? Explain that with three dead animals laying in the front yard that the most important thing he could do was check on his next-door neighbor?

All because of a whispered conversation he had a few nights before, while lying in the arms of his demon… friend?

“There’s got to be a price to pay. There’s always a price to pay. Everything has a price…” Peter moaned to himself as he pushed himself to move forward. He was longing to stop but if he stopped he might collapse. “Even if it isn’t _wrong_ … even good things have a price…” He stopped talking. Talking required air he didn’t have. But the thoughts in his head hurt almost as much as the pain in his ribs. He couldn’t stop thinking. So he just started running.

Even if it wasn’t wrong to have Tony in his bed every night, Peter had realized at some point during the day, there still had to be a price, didn’t there? _Everything_ had a price, that’s what all the old people at church kept saying. They talked a lot about “sin” at First Devil’s church, but Peter had decided a while ago that having Tony as his friend was not a sin. Tony couldn’t help what he was, or what he had been forced to do long before Peter was born. And as for what they did in bed together in the darkness…

Peter moaned even as he ran.

He had tried to replay the conversation in his head, but replaying the conversation was causing him too much pain. Because he had _just been talking to be talking_ , he knew that without a doubt. He had already told Tony all the important stuff that had happened while Tony had been asleep. He didn’t have anything left to tell. It was 3 o’clock in the morning, oh god he remembered, and by then he was just talking to stay awake. Stay awake and enjoy what Tony was doing with his hands.

When Peter climbed onto Tony’s lap first night Tony had come from the place where he lived under the bed, well, that had been the bravest thing Peter had ever done in his life. And probably the bravest thing he would do for a while, because pulling Tony’s mouth to the vein in his neck had resulted in a very surprising, embarrassing problem.

Namely, a very sudden and very painful erection. Instant. Aching. Seemingly two feet long. And pressing shamelessly and helplessly against Tony’s stomach as Peter clung to Tony, wide-eyed and speechless.

Not that Tony commented, of course. (But how could he? He had been moaning and clutching to Peter like a drowning man, drinking deep. Maybe he didn’t even notice himself.)

The next night Peter had to feed him the same way, of course. After fulfilling his summer-long plan to demand it, he couldn’t exactly go back on it now. That meant they lay on the bed more like the letter V than the letter I, Tony’s mouth attached to Peter’s neck, Peter’s body angled safely away in the other direction, his problem hidden under the covers.

But the third night, Peter had found a solution that was both simple and delightful. Laying in Tony’s arms, his back pressed against Tony’s chest, his problem became a non-problem. _And_ it felt incredible. 

When he was in Tony’s arms, facing Tony, Tony’s hands stroked and caressed his back, which felt good.

But when he was in Tony’s arms, turned away from Tony, Tony’s hands stroked and caressed his chest which felt _amazing_. And his problem, well, it just relaxed along with the rest of him.

And that’s what he had been doing. That’s why he had been talking.

He had been talking just to stay awake, just to enjoy Tony’s arms for a few more minutes. Just to enjoy Tony’s hands for a few more minutes before Tony slipped away. 

He remembered it so clearly. Tony was done with his second feeding and now was content to lick and nuzzle along Peter’s neck and shoulder, his hands roaming and exploring over Peter’s arms, and chest, and stomach. Complimenting over and over the new muscles he found there. Making Peter glow with pride.

 _“And that’s why you just had to keep talking”_ Peter told himself. _“And that’s why this is your fault.”_ He left off running and bent over, hands on in his burning thighs, struggling to breathe, fighting back tears. He had been talking so Tony would keep touching him, not because he really had anything to say. When he fell asleep Tony would slip into the basement and go back to hunting and consuming the rats that Peter had tasked him with. Then, if there was still night left, he would be on to the property to consume “whatever the owls and the foxes eat,” with Peter’s permission. Peter had been talking to keep Tony with him. That’s why he had been complaining about his neighbors.

And he only had two. The Lovelaces on the south side, and the DeSlaughters on the east.

On the south side, Missy Lovelace and her constant insistence that she was going to marry Peter. Because once upon a time a girl that had lived in her house had wanted to marry a boy that had lived in Peter’s house and somehow that meant something. Missy and her constant, unwelcome attempts to hold his hand. Missy and her constant complaints about her dad, about school, and her ever-present fears about grades, both good and bad. 

On the east side, Mike DeSlaughter, who could make _anybody_ laugh. Who could quote _Mad Magazine_ at length. Who liked the real-life Avengers but still collected Superman comics. Who could hold a very decent conversation about who were the necessary or unnecessary members of The Justice League. Who thought college was a good idea for the future and planned to go. Who had been friendly to Peter’s face, but also seemed to also be saying things behind his back.

“Shall I slay your foes in their beds, sweet Peter?” Tony said with a smile, nuzzling and nipping at his earlobe. Peter had laughed (because Tony was joking, _he could tell_ Tony was joking) and slapped at Tony’s hand playfully. Then pressed it back to the center of his chest. He loved it when Tony's hand was pressed to the center of his chest.

“Just slay the _rats_ in their sleep,” he had said that night.

“There are so many tasks I could perform for you, my master scholar. Sometimes the Patriarchs would send me far and wide to seek out the prettiest maidens in the counties beyond. I would spy upon them for weeks, then report back. The Post sons wished to know all about the ladies and their lives, so they would know what to say when they went courting…”

“ _Stop_ ,” Peter said laughing, reaching up to put his hand on Tony’s mouth, laughing even more when Tony began sucking on his fingers. “The last thing I want to talk about is _girls_.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I say anything wrong,” Peter started up the chant again as he forced himself to keep walking. “I didn’t tell him to do _anything_ … I said Mike was funny but I wish he'd stop telling the kids at school… I didn’t say anything else… I said _good_ things. I said he was a funny guy, although a little gun-crazy, I said his dad went to college, and that we were talking about college, and that’s _all I said_ …” 

But he knew. It had been _days_ since that conversation, but last night was different. Last night was something called “The Day of St. Cyprian,” which meant something to Tony, but Peter hadn’t really been interested right at that moment. Right that moment, he wanted Tony to keep feeding.

But when he woke up, Peter knew. Knew that Tony had been to the DeSlaughter house, sitting right there inside the border of what had used to be Post Family property. 

He knew the moment he woke up that morning, Uncle Ben knocking on his door, calling him ‘son.’ Telling him he needed to come outside.

He didn’t know _how_ he knew, he just knew. It was in a dream he had, or dreamed that he had, a dream he struggled to remember as he headed straight to the sideyard, barefoot and pajamaed. In the dream Tony had been apologizing, panting and straining, his voice almost too weak to hear. Begging for something. Something that sounded like ‘pardon.’ And Peter knew _exactly_ where he had been. That he had waited for that special night to visit the DeSlaughter house. Because Peter had said “I wish.’ 

Uncle Ben explained that Old-Blue, the dog that they always said had “come with the house” had not come with the other dogs to meet Uncle Ben when he went for his morning walk. The dog wasn’t hard to find, he was still lying, unmoving, in his doghouse. Peter could hardly hear Uncle Ben explain over blood pounding in his ears. The three doghouses Ben and Peter had built together each had detachable roofs. Without speaking Peter unlatched all four sides and pulled Old-Blue’s roof free. He looked directly into his dead friend’s face. Old-Blue’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed. He had died in his sleep.

Just like those neighbors who had made the mistake of asking Evan Post when he would get himself a wife.

Just like the full-grown male racoon that was lying dead in the middle of the yard, not 8 feet away from Old-Blue. It was the two peacefully-dead animals that were causing Ben and May much consternation, but Peter didn’t stick around to exchange theories.

“I didn’t tell him to do anything. I didn’t. I said Mike could always make me laugh. That he was a _decent_ guy. He _is_ a decent guy. I just said I wish he’d stop telling people…”

Maybe it _was_ just a coincidence. There was nothing special about Old-Blue dying, he was _old_ , that’s why they called him Old-Blue. He was a stray, all the family dogs were strays, but they considered him older than the others because he appeared the same day they moved in, sitting happily at the door as if he had been expected. And the dead raccoon wasn’t strange either (although the fact that the other dogs wouldn’t go near it was) and neither was the skunk lying dead in the ditch by the driveway, the one May and Ben hadn’t seen. No, those three dead animals might not mean anything in particular.

But the dead crows laying beside the road, the two snapping turtles, the multiple rabbits and what might have been a coyote (Peter didn’t stop to check) were no coincidence. No coincidence at all.

“I just said ‘I wish he would stop telling people he sees strange lights over my house.’ That’s all I said. I said he was a funny guy. I said I liked him…” Peter moaned as he sprinted. There was no one on the empty gravel road to hear him. Tony was gone and wouldn’t reappear until dark. There was no way to talk to him now, to tell him Mike was a good guy, had even warned Peter in front of the other guys that the shed was just a prank. But Peter hadn’t told Tony that. Because Peter didn’t want to talk about the shed. Not with Tony. Not with anyone.


	5. The Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my god man, stop!” That was Buddy, a moment of real fear in his voice. Peter smirked. But that was Devil’s Holler’ boys for you. They had no fear of grabbing a girl’s butt or starting a fist fight or handling loaded guns (or getting caught smoking or sneaking beers onto school grounds or starting fires) but they took the Post Ghosts very seriously.
> 
> “Sorry, don’t be mad at Buddy, Mr. Tom-Ghost. He doesn’t care that you went Lizzy Borden on your girlfriend. He says he’s going to kill his girlfriend too. Axing your girlfriend, though, that’s heavy. But for serious, Just Say No man…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read about Peter's adventures in the shed, you might enjoy learning about Tom Dooley. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhXuO4Gz3Wo
> 
> The inspiration for, but NOT the historical source for, one of the ghost-stories about Peter's house.

The Shed

The shed was, probably, part of Peter’s family’s property, although he only learned that from the boys that had dared him to go in it. As far as Peter knew, their property ended in a line that cut across the lake. Peter had found the shed and the free-standing chimney the first year they had moved there, of course. He had gone inside more than once, looking for owls nests or foxes' dens. But the last time he had gone in, he had discovered it was a human boy nest, with some obvious attempts at a clubhouse and some magazines featuring naked girls. He never went back inside.

That’s where they were headed that last day of school, the last day that Buster and Buddy Greenleaf suddenly got chummy with Peter and said they wanted to “hang out” to “shoot the shit.” Peter was suspicious of course, but in the end he joined them. 

Walking home with a crowd of boys, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about dodging hand-holding, and marriage proposals, from Missy Lovelace.

And it had been educational. Sort of. 

He had heard the story of Tom Dylan Post before, and had known that the man had disappeared after murdering his girlfriend. What he did NOT know was that the intact fireplace-and-chimney that stood apart from the shed had been Tom Dylan’s house, and that it had been burned down by angry townspeople who couldn’t find the man. “They would have burned down the house you live in too,” Buster had informed him. “But you know, the ghost.”

“That’s a pretty helpful ghost, I’d say,” Peter posited. That got a laugh. They _had_ seemed friendly, Peter remembered. Even with Mike’s warning, the day up until the shed was a happy memory. School was out. Summer was starting. Summer meant endless library time, uninterrupted by pointless schoolwork. Summer meant three months free from hand-holding and marriage proposals from Missy Lovelace. (And Summer meant Autumn. And Autumn meant Tony.)

“I still don’t see why I’m supposed to have a cow about a ‘haunted shed’ that is _on my property_ , and I told you, I’ve been there bunches…” he had said boldly as they approached the shed from the south, following the derelict road. They were headed north, directly facing Peter’s house. Peter felt 6 feet tall. On his own property, facing his own ‘haunted house’ he didn’t feel awkward or tongue-tied at all. He could crack dirty jokes and swear just like they could. Suddenly fitting in with this ghost-story telling, wise-cracking crowd of boys didn’t seem like such a herculean task at all. Sure, they liked to shoot animals and he liked to study animals, but Mike’s dad liked to study animals too. Sure they wanted to drop out of school when they turned 18 and Peter wanted to go to college, but Mike wanted to go to college too. 

And sure, they wanted to trick him into going into a shed to discover some girly magazine, a Playboy or a Penthouse, and Peter could do that too. It was gross and disgusting, but a lot of science was gross and disgusting. He figured it out as they approached the shed, stealing himself up for the moment. Dissecting frogs and fetal pigs and cows hearts was gross too, and he was looking forward to doing all of that if they let him take the senior science class next year. A naked woman wasn’t anymore gross than that, was it? Well, yes it was, but it was a gross he could handle. He was ready. And he had a plan.

“That shed has got ghosts AND snakes, and that’s why we _dare_ you, cuz’ YOU claim you ain’t afraid of either, Parker,” Buddy was sneering, but Peter waved him off. Of course he wasn’t afraid of snakes, because he knew whatever was in there wasn’t venomous. He knew because of Tony. And he wasn’t afraid of Playboys, either. Grossed out, yes. But not _afraid_. You couldn’t be afraid when you had a plan.

“Come on, you’re just stalling. You’re as slow as Christmas. Quit draggin’ your feet,” the boys hectored as Peter and Mike examined the lone-standing chimney, talking to each other excitedly about how the cabin must have been situated around it. Peter hadn’t spent much time examining the chimney after he determined nothing was living inside it, now he was excited, knowing it was part of the Post Family’s history. 

Whoever Tom Dylan Post was, Tony must have met him.

“Hey Slaughter-man, quit yackin’ about the chimney and tell Pussy-boy to go in the shed! We dared him!”

“Shut the fuck _up_ Buster!” Mike had yelled back, and Peter had thrown up his hands in between them both and made a joke. 

And, just like that, for just that moment, he had felt it. Something he hadn’t felt since New York City. That feeling of _home_ . He was hanging out with his friends. They were trading ghost-stories and trashtalk and dares, and he was playing peace-keeper when voices were raised. _Just like his friends in the city._ He was laughing as he walked toward the shed. He felt fearless and carefree. He felt like the first day of summer.

“Hey Mr. Post! Mr…. what was his name? Hey Mr. Murder-guy Post? Did you know you were famous?” he called out to what lived in the shed (if there were non-venomous snakes inside, he wanted to give them plenty of warning. That’s why he stopped to knock on the wall.)

“Hey… Mr. Tom? Tom Dooly… Dula… Mr. Tom Whateverthehell…” 

“Oh my  _ god _ man, stop!” That was Buddy, a moment of real fear in his voice. Peter smirked. But that was Devil’s Holler’ boys for you.  They had no fear of grabbing a girl’s butt or starting a fist fight or handling loaded guns (or getting caught smoking or sneaking beers onto school grounds or starting fires) but they took the Post Ghosts  _ very _ seriously. 

“Sorry, don’t be mad at Buddy, Mr. Tom-Ghost. He doesn’t care that you went Lizzy Borden on your girlfriend. He says he’s going to kill his girlfriend too. Axing your girlfriend, though, that’s heavy. But for serious, _Just Say No_ man…”

That’s how he announced himself as he stepped inside the cool darkness of the shed. Automatically he looked up to see if any owls had moved in since he had last been there, but there was only empty birds’ nests. Probably eastern bluebirds, from the looks of it. Several brown mud dauber structures as well, he could see. Nothing interesting. 

Then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing there. He looked towards the north wall, to see if the boys could see or be seen. But the gap in the wall was grown over with weeds now. He could look through the bullet holes and see out, if he felt like it, but unless they came and stood by the door, they wouldn’t see him. So he looked for the magazine.

There it was, exactly here he knew it would be. Dead center on the floor, just so he wouldn’t miss it. Sitting on an overturned wooden crate, like an offering. 

He picked it up fearlessly and started thumbing through looking for the right picture. His plan had been to walk up to Buddy and say “Hey look! I found a picture of _your mom_ !” and point at a random page. He had been _planning_ to do that without even looking at the picture, but had thought better of it. Not every picture in those magazine was of a naked lady. Some of them were articles. 

The first picture surprised him.

The second picture made him cringe.

But what the men were doing to each other on the third page made him drop the magazine and back away.

For what seemed like several minutes he could move. His heart was pounding, his face flushed. He had forgotten how to breathe. He might have stood that way for an hour if he hadn’t heard something move above his head. That drew his eyes back to the empty bluebird nest. The mud daubers structures. The place where the owls weren’t. That reminded him – he was in the shed. The boys were outside, pranking him with the magazine. If they were behind him, looking through the door they would know…

…they weren't. A quick look through the bullet holes in the north wall told the truth – they had sent him in there and snuck away. At least he was alone.

His heart was pounding like an animal being pursued, like an animal whose secret hiding place had been discovered. He turned over the wooden crate and found it empty. He tried to kick the dirty magazine into the crate but couldn’t. Finally he picked it up by one corner and tossed it into the box and exited the shed through the gap in the south wall. Then he ran.

A dead oak stood dramatically at the top of the ridge, it’s bare black limbs could be seen grasping towards the sky all the way from Post Lake. Under the leaves there Peter shoved the disturbing pictures. Tossing the crate aside, he ran all the way home.

He was back two hours later.

Finding the magazine was alarmingly easy. It was still there, intact, most of its pages surprisingly legible. It was like the evil doll in the Twilight Zone, Peter thought grimly as he retrieved the empty crate and tossed the hateful pages back inside. Maybe there’s no _point_ in trying to destroy it.

“But it’s not a doll, it’s pictures on paper,” Peter assured himself. “Just ink on paper. And paper is delicate.” 

And that’s why the magazine featuring muscular sweaty men with huge mustaches (for the rest of his life Peter would think of it as the “mustache magazine”) found it’s new home at the bottom of Post Lake. Peter walked home and slept easy that night.

He slept in one of the other beds in that hallway, but he slept easy. The dirty magazine had been destroyed.

That way, he could never go back and study those pictures again.


	6. A Better Ghost Story

He had come up with a story about what happened to him in the shed, but no one ever asked. That same week Buddy’s 15-year-old cousin had shot his mother’s boyfriend in the shoulder and accidentally killed him. He hadn’t missed, he had shot the man through the door at point-blank range, but the bullet had ricocheted off a bone in the man’s shoulder and went straight into his heart. There was no arrest of course, Buddy’s cousin’s mom was a widow whose husband had been a police officer up until he died. No one particularly cared that the town drunk was dead, but everybody had something to say about it. The shed had been completely forgotten.

Peter had never spoken about it to anyone, including Tony. The only boy Peter had ever mentioned at home was Mike, and now he was incredibly grateful. If only he hadn’t found out about what Mike had been saying behind his back…

The first thing he saw as the DeSlaughter house came into view, swimming dangerously before his eyes, was Monica coming at him at a dead run, her arms outstretched.

Peter’s heart would have pounded if it hadn’t already been pounding so hard his chest ached. All he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears. All he could think of was Tony slipping into the bed of some old “biddy” and taking the “light” from her brain first. So it wouldn’t hurt. As Monica came within shouting distance he braced himself for the terrible news.

“Superbarbie is going to _save you_!” 

All the DeSlaughter dogs were following her, all four, panting and wagging their tails. Peter gaped as he realized why Monica was running – her Barbie, naked except for part of a red bandana that it was wearing as a cape, had been flying out to rescue him. 

“Where’s Mike?” was all he could get out.

“Watchin’ Saturday-munnin-cartoons. Sit’s Transformers. I’m not allowed to watch onaccounta’ it’s for boys. Jem is already over so’s you can’t watch it with me . Superbarbie is going to SAVE you _Peter!!_ ”

Peter fought back tears as Monica led him back to the house, running circles around him and describing, in detail, how Superbarbie was saving him. Once upon a time he had regretted ever letting Monica know that he loved superhero comic books. Now it was all he could do not to stop Superbarbie in mid-flight to hug the girl who invented her. The DeSlaughter’s were alright. All the DeSlaughter dogs, at least, were accounted for. Whatever else Tony had done last night, he hadn’t hurt Mike.

Mrs. DeSlaughter stepped out onto the large wooden deck and waved to him energetically. Like the Lovelaces, the DeSlaughter’s lived in a Mobile home. Unlike the Lovelaces, however, the DeSlaughter house was just as clean as Peter’s house, and full of recent renovations. Mr. DeSlaughter and his sons had built a backdoor deck almost the same size as the house itself. As Peter climbed the steps to the deck he was surprised to hear Mrs. DeSlaughter greeting him and complimenting him as if she were overjoyed to see him. As far as he could tell, this was the first time she had spoken more than two sentences to him since they had met.

“...such a beautiful day today. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Have you had breakfast?” she asked, and Peter blinked at the question. Of course he hadn’t stopped to eat breakfast. He had barely stopped long enough to put on his shoes.

A moment later he was still blinking in confusion, only now he was sitting at the DeSlaughter’s kitchen table, in between a chattering Monica and Mike’s silent brother Matthew, with Mrs. DeSlaughter cooking breakfast for him as if she had been doing it all her life. 

“I had a _dream_ about you,” Matthew declared in an accusatory tone during a brief pause in Monica’s continuing saga of Superbarbie and her husband Superken. “I’m sorry,” Peter said, wilting under his glare.

“Matthew, be polite. It’s _so_ funny that you came by, Peter, we were _just_ talking about you. How is your Aunt? I have been meaning to call her. I was just saying to Mike, ‘Why haven’t you invited Peter over for dinner? He hasn’t been over to the house since last year." I’m so glad you came over…”

“My dog died,” Peter said woodenly. Matthew was still glaring at him, and Superbarbie was currently climbing up and sitting on his shoulder. He felt like he was in a play and struggling to remember his lines. “I came to tell Mike. There’s a big raccoon dead in our yard too, and I thought he should know.”

“Oh, you should talk to Mike’s dad. He can tell you if it was snakes. We’ll have you all over for dinner. The whole family. We can eat on the deck. Mike’s dad can bar-be-q.”

“Hey Peter, come see something,” Mike called as he entered the kitchen and walked straight through the opposite door, never once looking in Peter’s direction. Peter excused himself and hurried after him.

Like Peter’s house, the DeSlaughter house had a front door that was never used. The two boys sat on the little front cement front porch that Mike’s dad had made. They sat awkwardly for a long time time in silence, until Peter almost made a joke himself. But he didn’t. Laughter was Mike’s job.

Finally he spoke.

“Look, don’t have a cow but... I’m sorry I said… I don’t know if you heard or not, but I told the guys sometimes there were strange lights over your house. Or whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For a moment he looked around the DeSlaughter yard, as if he were thinking. The yard looked so different from his own, a large patch of grass scattered with multiple bikes and toys and sports equipment and fishing gear leaning against the wall. It told a story of a life so much different than Peter’s, a life of siblings and parents who took their kids camping and boating and fishing. Peter had always lived a solitary life, even in New York City. The life of an only child whose guardians were elderly on the day he met them.

Finally he realized Mike was waiting for him to speak. 

He shrugged. “I wasn’t _mad_ mad, I was just like, confused. I’ve lived in that house for three years now, and I’ve never seen strange lights there.”

“It’s just that my parents said that. They said they had seen that before I was born.”

“Well that was before I was born too, so why should I give a care? Look, I know the guys talk about me when I’m not there…”

“They talk about you _a lot_ when you’re not there,” Mike admitted, looking at his bare feet.

“Well, that’s their problem, isn’t it?” Peter snapped, repeating Aunt May’s favorite saying without thinking.

“Hey don’t get mad at _me_ . Look, the weird-light thing is the _only_ thing I’ve said about your house, and I could have said a _lot_ of things, Peter,” Mike said, his voice raising suddenly, then just as suddenly he closed his mouth hard.

“Okay, okay, no problem,” Peter said carelessly, looking away again. Normally when voices were raised, especially when it was a boy his age, Peter walked away. He could certainly do that today (Mrs. DeSlaughter was inside making his pancakes now) but quite suddenly he decided on a different tactic.

“You know, whatever. I just don’t know if I could care less about boys who brag about how many F’s they got in science…” he casually, making Mike grin with the inside joke. “Look, I’ll make you a deal, I’ll forget the whole thing. _If_ you tell me _every_ strange story you know about my house.”

“Oh there are tons…” Mike said, hopping up from the step, no longer looking embarrassed. Peter relaxed. Mike had taken the deal. It wasn’t a deal that made a lot of sense, but it was a deal, and Mike had taken it.

“Ok, so like the _first_ Post lady was a witch who was running away from the Spanish Inquisition. Like her whole family was. And how the girls all had to learn Portuguese so they could read all her witch’s spellbooks. And how right before the Civil War the whole family made a deal with the devil and they could fly, and swing from tree to tree like Tarzan and outrun cars like the Six Million Dollar Man…”

“It sounds like you’re describing my favorite comic books,” Peter said, laughing.

“Yeah, it’s _really_ weird. And there was this one Post son whose skin could stop bullets, only he died in the Civil War because he thought he could stop cannon balls. And right before the Civil War? Tom Dylan Post chopped up that girl who wouldn’t marry him, because she didn’t want to marry into that crazy-witch-devil family? And he disappeared like that,” Mike snapped his fingers. “And the whole town went to the Post Homestead to search for him, like the sheriff and the girl’s family and everybody, and the family said he had left for Tennessee but no one had seen him go, like on the only road out of town or something, and they never found him. Because he was hiding in an underground house that his family had dug for him, and he had to live there for the rest of his whole life. And he died down there and they couldn’t bury him onaccounta’ they couldn’t let on that they had been hiding him, so his body is down there to this very day…”

“Wait… wait!” Peter said laughing. “Now _this_ sounds like a _Tale from the Crypt_ comic book, and I never waste my money on those! Wait, this is a _cool_ story, why isn’t _this_ story of my haunted house?? Dying in an underground house you had to live your whole life in is a _much_ better ghost-story than 'Evan Post’s Pigs Didn’t Die in the Great Pig Die-off of 1935'…”

They laughed for a while, and for a few minutes they compared Tales from the Crypt plots, debating which ones would fit in well with Peter’s haunted house. 

Then Peter remembered why he had run all the way there in the first place.

“So… why are you… why are we talking about this anyway? I never told anyone I was mad about the lights thing. I mean it was annoying, but I didn’t tell anybody about it.”

Mike’s face clouded and he looked away. And his answer didn’t surprise Peter at all.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “I think I dreamed about it last night, or something. And then I woke up this morning and my mom was all like ‘Why is everyone so mean to that sweet Peter?’” Peter laughed at Mike’s high falsetto tone. “He’s so sweet and so smart and polite and nice all the time and he’s an orphan!’ And I’m like ‘He’s not exactly Little Orphan Annie, mom.’” 

“No, not exactly,” Peter said, laughing at the picture.

“Hey man, I always stand up for you when the boys start to talk. I told them Missy really is your girlfriend, and you’ve probably gotten to second base…”

“Oh crap no!” Peter said suddenly, his eyes going wide. “ _No_ , Mike, for serious. _Please_ don’t tell anybody that. Missy is _terrified_ of her father, I mean seriously she talks about him all the time. She says he’ll kill her and me both if he ever sees us holding hands together…”

“Then why does she hold your hand?” Mike objected.

“ _That’s what I said!!_ I mean when we’re walking home from school if she hears a car coming she’ll jump over to the other side of the street so it doesn’t look like we’re walking together and I’m like ‘Well maybe you should just stop holding my hand please?! And she tells me this weird story about how some girl that used to live on her land wanted to marry some boy that lived on my land, and how the girl’s father didn’t want them to…”

“Yeah, that’s Laura Foster. That’s the girl Tom Dylan Post cut up with his big bowie knife.”

“Okay that just makes it _weirder_ , Mike.”

“Peter? Seriously? For serious?”

Peter’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t used to the eyes he was seeing in Mike’s face now.

“I’m your friend Peter? But really? _Shut up._ I mean it man, you have _got_ to **_shut up_ **. Stop complaining about girls wanting to hold your hand. That’s why they talk about you at school. No matter how crazy she is you can’t complain that you’ve already gotten to first base with her,” Mike explained, shaking his head solemnly. It irritated Peter suddenly, watching Mike trying to sound like a wise old man, dispensing his wisdom. Mike was two months younger than he was.

“It’s not all the books you read, or how you seem to know more than the science teachers do, or how you’ve never fired a gun,” Mike was continuing. “And it’s not really the Post-Ghost. It’s because you’re from New York City and you think it’s normal that fairies and queers just walk around like it’s nothin’. It’s because you’re from New York City and you don’t even own a single Playboy or _anything_.”

“Is that what the magazine I was supposed to find in the shed? The one I didn’t see because I thought the prank was about the dead squirrel on the floor? And that was supposed to be gross or something, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to be a science major or an exterminator if I get grossed out by a dead squirrel….”

“I don’t know anything about the squirrel. Yeah, there was a magazine in there you were supposed to find.” 

“What was it? A Playboy?” Peter asked, hoping he sounded casual. Hoping Mike couldn’t tell how hard it was to act casual right now.

“Or something else? Like a Playgirl?”

Mike shrugged and looked at his feet. “I don’t know if it was a Playgirl or what, I mean it didn’t have a cover. Cole found it in this box of old books, at his uncle’s house, he said. It was all these men with big mustaches doing _nasty_ stuff. It was so gross. It was Buster that put in the shed and said we should prank you with it. I told them you saw that sort of thing in New York City all the time but Buddy said it would be funny.”

“Weird. Cole’s uncle is weird.”

“I’ll say. You know what I heard?” But then Mike’s dad was calling them from inside. Peter all but ran to him. He didn’t want to know anything about Cole’s uncle. 

Knowing how many members of the household had dreamed about him, it didn’t really surprise Peter that Mr. DeSlaughter was now shaking his hand, asking him how he was and generally acting like they had been best friends who had been separated for years.

“Sorry to hear about your dog.” I used to bury all my pets out in a cemetery my brothers and I had made in the yard behind our house. Call your uncle and tell him I’ll come over. If you’ve got snakes I’ll be able to tell…” and then continued to discuss snake bite symptoms for the rest of breakfast. Peter listened attentively. Mike’s dad was as good as any science teacher.

After Peter had finished off his pancakes (and assured Mike’s mother that he didn’t want anything else to eat, he had to assure her many, many times) he was pointed to the kitchen phone to call home.

Walking toward the phone, Peter was struck, for a moment, at the irony. (Not irony, his English teacher would tell him. This was not irony. This was _coincidence_.) 

There was a time when Peter had a great fear of phones. Just the idea of dialing a number himself made his stomach hurt and his palms sweat. He had nightmares, as a child, of the clear plastic rotary dial spinning around endlessly, knowing he couldn’t have possibly dialed the right number. May always dialed the phone when he wanted to talk to his friends, but when he turned 12 Ben said he was too old for that and made her stop. As an experiment, he fed that fear to Tony, but only after carefully writing out the instructions in one of his notebooks, titled “How To Use A Rotary Phone.”

And he needed them. Two days ago he found the instructions by accident and read them with fascination. He spent the whole morning practicing calling numbers, time, the weather, the radio station to make a request. He practiced dialing his home number and listened to the busy signal over and over again. That-Peter found the whole procedure delightful. That-Peter couldn’t imagine the boy who had been afraid of it.

This-Peter realized that the entire DeSlaugher family was watching him now. He turned around and smiled at them.

“You have a touch-tone phone. I’ve always wanted one. Those are cool.”

“I can play Mary-Had-A-Little-Lamb on it!” Monica trumpeted as Peter dialed home.

* * * * *

Peter’s friends’ parents had taken them to quite a few outdoor plays in the city. Peter felt like he was in a play now. He hoped he was remembering all his lines.

Sitting in the cab of the pickup truck with Mike’s dad while the two boys rode in the back (riding in the back of a truck never looked safe to Peter) he made polite noises while Mr. DeSlaughter tried to talk him into going on hunting trips with them in the summer, or working for him after school was over. At the house he dutifully took them on “the tour” because Aunt May had declared him the expert. At the table he kept up his side in an argument about which was better, _Super Friends_ or the _Super Powers Team_ and why Apache Chief was a terrible superhero. 

It wasn’t all bad. Mr. DeSlaughter and Uncle Ben stood outside and talked for _ages_ , and Aunt May fussed over lunch for the three boys as if she had been doing it her whole life. Still, Peter couldn’t help watch the clock. Counting the hours. Calculating how long he had to wait until he could talk to Tony.

After lunch he took Matthew and Mike to climb his favorite trees, and to see the owls’ nest in the barn. He even took them to the place they called "Suicide Lake," where he pointed out the dead oak that pointed the way back to Chimney Hill and the shed.

“They said Tom Dylan cut up his girlfriend because she really wanted to marry his brother,” Matthew was lecturing as Mike and Peter tossed rocks into the water. He was acting like the expert now, pointing out all the features of the Post Homestead, even though he had his brother had never played at Suicide Lake, or even come onto the land, before now.

"Then he drowned himself in this lake, only they never found his body. Because there's a hole down there that leads to Hell... that's where the Devil came out once every 100 years to make a pact with the family so that they would always be rich... and his body just went right into it and he went straight to Hell."

"I thought he was buried under my house somewhere," groused Peter.

"One or the other," Matthew continued. “Thing is, Laura Foster didn’t want to marry him at all. Like she was best friends with his sisters, so she was always at his house, at your house, all the time. Because that’s where her best friends lived. Only he didn’t know that, and thought she was there to see him.”

“Why would she be best friends with his sisters if she didn’t like his witch-devil-running-from-the-inquisition family?” 

“She didn’t mind being their friends, but she didn’t want to _marry_ into the family. Once you marry 'into a family' it’s different. Now you're connected. Now you're a 'Post.' Now you’re a part of them.”

“How do you even know all this anyway, smartypants,” Peter needled. He actually _liked_ Matthew, just like he liked Monica, but felt obliged to talk down to them out of loyalty to Mike.

“Our Mee-ma grew up here," Mike explained. Our Mom’s grandma. Her whole family is from here. She can tell you _anything_. She’s full of old stories, and Matthew is her favorite.”

Peter thought about that for a moment, looking up at the ridge. Beyond that was the shed, which he’d be happy to burn to the ground right now. But there was also the lone chimney and foundation to a small house that stood there too, another Post house where some Post family member had lived. It piqued his interest, now. 

“I should talk to your Mee-ma. I can interview her for that Social Studies project we’re supposed to do. That’s probably a good idea.”

“Why do you want to do that?” Mike said with an eyeroll.

Peter smiled. For a very brief moment, he suddenly didn’t feel like he was acting at all.

“Because all your looser-ghost-stories about my house are all boring. I think it’s time to write up a better one.”


	7. I Conjure Master Tony

“Come to me, Tony. I’m not mad. I promise I won’t be mad at you, although I would like you to explain to me why you killed my dog…”

Peter lay his head against his bed and sighed in frustration. Since the DeSlaughters had  _ finally _ left he had been counting the minutes until sundown. And, at 7:16 the sun  _ had _ set (Peter had bought an almanac with his birthday money way back at the start of the summer. It was very handy when living with Tony. He was going to ask for one every Christmas.) Now it was coming close to 8:00 and Peter was still sitting on his floor, speaking softly, speaking gently. Trying to speak honestly, as he probably couldn’t really hide his feelings from Tony anyway. But as the minutes passed, then the half-hour, he was becoming aware that his actual feelings were beginning to change. When he had sat down on the floor he had still been upset about Old-Blue, but as the evening wore on he realized he was far more concerned about his friend than about the elderly dog that was going to die anyway.

He had bathed and brushed his teeth, donned a t-shirt to sleep in and was ready for bed. All he was missing was Tony.

“ _ Please _ , Tony. Please come to me. I’m not mad anymore. Just come talk to me. You can’t hide under there forever anyway, and I can stay up all night. Come talk to me, Tony. You did some good things last night, but you did some not-good things too, and we need to talk about that. Come to me, Tony.”

He tried killing time by reading a little more of the last  Hitchhiker’s book, the one he hadn’t finished yet, but he couldn’t concentrate. He discussed out-loud his idea to feed  Hitchhikers to Tony, all of the joy and amusement and excitement he had experienced the first time he had read it. Then, he reasoned, he would forget the experience altogether, and be able to enjoy it again for the first time.

Finally he tossed the book over his shoulder in frustration. “Tony  **_get_ ** _ out here and talk to me _ ,” he scolded, as if he were talking to one of the dogs. He heard movement under the bed, but no words.

He crossed his bare legs and looked down at the darkness under the bed, and paused for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes and, after thinking for a long moment, he spoke again.

“I conjure Master Tony and do not release him,” he intoned solemnly. “By the uttermost magic I bind Master Tony to me. I conjure Anthony. I conjure “ _ a musa _ ,” and ‘The Fae’ and ‘The Wendigo.’ I conjure the one the Post Sons called Methuselah and the Post Daughters called… whatever that Portuguese name was. 

“I am the Master Doctor, the Master Scholar, the Library-Pilgrim. By  Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy , by  If Life Is A Bowl Of Cherries , by  Silent Spring , by every memory in my journal  _ I conjure you _ . I conjure my friend Anthony and  _ I do not release him _ . By the uttermost magic I bind you to me…”

Peter moved away from the bed as he heard Tony approach. Sitting cross-legged he closed his eyes, as he always did, and waited for the inky blackness to take the more recognizable (and agreeable) shape of Tony’s human form. 

Although tonight, Tony’s human form only existed from the waist up. The rest was only the darkness emanating from under the bed.

Tony’s forehead was bent to touch one of Peter’s knees, Tony’s hand weakly gripped the other. His hand was deathly pale, and skeletal. Peter reached out and pressed Tony’s hand to his bare knee, and did not protest as Tony reached his hand up to stroke Peter’s inner thigh. With one hand he combed his fingers through Tony’s hair, with the other hand he pressed Tony’s hand closer. There would be a great need for skin-to-skin contact tonight, he could tell. 

“Pardon, Master, I crave your  _ pardon _ …” he breathed, his voice broken. “The seal of Berthwald was too strong, the seals of Evorá, too weak…” But Peter shushed him. That heartbroken voice, barely above a whisper, was too much to bear.

“Don’t, you have to feed. Wait until you’ve fed, shhhhh,” Peter said gently, forcing the last two fingers of his left hand into Tony’s mouth. Tony’s mouth moved around the feebly at first, then he began sucking with a will, his gaunt hand clinging to Peter’s wrist like a drowning man as Peter stroked his head, whispering.

Even after feeding him from the vein in his neck, Tony was too weak to climb onto the bed. Pulling back the covers, Peter gathered the pale form into his arms. He was proud of his new muscles as Tony nuzzled against one bicep as he tucked the man in. Then, stripping down to his boxers, he slipped in beside his friend and held him close. 

“Tell me everything,” Peter said gently. “Start from the beginning.”


	8. The Books of St. Berthwald and the Books of St. Cyprian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...He had originally imagined that it was the men of the Post household, but only one at time, reading from some ancient book and using it to command Tony. But now he was picturing the entire sprawling family, each with rival spellbooks, each competing against each other to… what exactly?”

****

**The Books of St. Berthwald and the Books of St. Cyprian**

“The Post sons cast from the German books, but the Post daughters, from the True Book of St. Cyprian, the _T hesouro de Feiticeiro _ , the Book of the Witches of Evorá, The seals from the German book were set once a year, and changed as the Post land increased. But the Post Daughters set the seals of Evorá _many_ times a year. They loved those rituals, they dreamed of them often. Spoke of them often. So delightful, they found them so delightful… there were candles and singing and joyful dancing… such joy…”

“Wait, wait…” Peter said when Tony’s voice faltered again. He slipped the last two fingers of his left hand into Tony’s mouth while he tried to think. Tony gripped his wrist firmly as he sucked, but at least he wasn’t clinging to it like a drowning man any more, no longer whimpering as he fed. 

Several times during the story Tony’s eyes had fluttered closed and he began repeating himself, his voice fading away like a man going to sleep. Those times Peter had taken Tony’s chin in his hand, turned the pale face to him and forced his tongue into Tony’s mouth, letting his friend feed that way until he revived. 

But Peter couldn’t ‘kiss’ Tony and ask questions at the same time. He wasn’t sure why Tony was telling him about the books the Post brothers and the Avis family had brought over from Europe (although he had asked Tony to “start at the beginning.”) Of course he wanted to know about the trail of dead animals, ending with Old-Blue, but now that Tony was talking Peter couldn’t stop asking questions.

“Are you saying… are you saying there were spellbooks that only the men could read, and one only for women? But… but you said Beatrice’s’ _father_ gave her that book…”

Tony gave another drunken chuckle. Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about this punch-drunk Tony. He had seen Tony pale before, but never so weak. 

“No, Master Peter. The boys were only taught to read in German. They could not read from the Book of the Student or the Book of Athanásio or The Burning of St. Cyprian or the Almanac of Tia Micaela or the _Thesouro de Feiticeiro_ because they could not read Portuguese. Some books could not be _touched_ by their brothers. _Oh_ , the sisters. How the sisters guarded their _treasures…_ ”

“But, what was the difference?” Peter asked, but Tony was stroking his chest and nuzzling at his neck again. He let Tony suck the vein there again for a moment before insisting on an answer, all while puzzling it out. He had originally imagined that it was the men of the Post household, but only one at time, reading from some ancient book and using it to command Tony. But now he was picturing the entire sprawling family, each with rival spellbooks, each competing against each other to… what exactly?”

“The seal of Berthwald hurts to cross. It binds me inside. I cannot leave Post land without permission, and even when tasked to do so, it takes some effort. But the seals of Evorá, set all over the hollows and the bottoms and the groves and the glades… and the cattle field… and the lake, oh so many they made for me… they feed me. They feed me strength from the land. So many times Lavern and Enid and Ada and Ada-Joy dreamed of new places. So many new places to cast the seals…”

“You were making them dream about the seals of Evorá,” Peter scolded gently.

“ _Of course I was_ ,” Tony murmured against Peter’s throat, and Peter could hear the smile in his voice.

“So let me get this straight,” Peter said, cupping Tony’s head and bringing his mouth back the vein. Even though Tony had been feeding all night, Tony’s hand tightened on Peter’s shoulder and he drank with a moan. 

“So the German books bind you to the land, so you can’t escape. But the Portuguese books turn the land into food, so you don’t _want_ to leave. One is a punishment, one is a _bribe_ . I get it. Wait… is that because the German books called you a demon,? Are the _Portuguese_ books the ones that called you a muse?

The  _Thesouro de Feiticeiro_ calls me an ‘angel.’” 

“Okay that’s… that’s important. You can tell me more later. Tony…” Gently but firmly he forced Tony’s mouth away from his neck. He was beginning to wonder if Tony kept feeding to avoid answering the question. (Still, it was almost impossible to resist – especially when Tony kept _clinging_ to him, whimpering when pulled away.)

“You still haven’t explained to me why you killed my dog,” he whispered, stroking Tony’s face.

Tony’s eyes closed again, but he obeyed. 

“You told me the DeSlaughter lad lived within the Post landholding. But _forgive me master_ ,” Tony whimpered, reaching out and stroking Peter’s face with pleading fingers. “You were mistaken. That household stands on the _other side of the border_. That land belonged to the Beekmans, and then the Bergens. I had to cross the seal at the border...”

“But… **_no…_ **the Post family… they sent you outside the property all the time. When they tasked you to take messages… you went all the way to New York City. Evan Post sent you out to kill the pigs…”

“But never without feeding me first. A fat cow, or two swine. The seals of Berthwald require it. But Abraham _never cast_ the seals of Berthwald at the border, and Evan did not know how. The seals at the border have faded with time. On the southern border it has faded to nothing. But to cross the _eastern_ border, it did take great effort. The eastern seals were always the strongest. The oldest son always stands at the eastern gate… Evan Post was the youngest son… how could the seals still hold... ”

“Stop, stop,” Peter said gently. Once again he placed his fingers in Tony’s mouth while he tried to sort it out. “Okay, to _me_ a seal is a way to close something, like a wax seal that keeps a letter closed. Or the seal of a mason jar… wait… wait... is the seal of Berthwald like the seal of the State of New York? Like a circle with a picture inside?”

Holding Tony close, he let his friend describe it. Peter tried to piece it together, tried to make it make sense. The Post women traipsing off into the woods for almost any occasion, singing and performing intricate circle dances while holding candles. Leave Tony small circles full of flowers and sometimes an offering, a black goat or a black duck. But in the 20’s, it was more like to be a sheet of music or a poem or a small painting. These were like dinner plates to Tony, feasts to be enjoyed that could also be returned to and snacked on later. The “seal” was the circle of power that forced the positive energy to stay inside until Tony had consumed it all. A yummy meal, and snacks for later. Even decades later. The Seals of Evorá were tupperware. 

But the German seals were different. This was one large seal at the Post property border that forced _Tony_ to stay inside. Not a circle, but four invisible walls the same shape as the border. Less like tupperware, more like more like a razor wire fence. Tony could cross, only with permission, and even then it took time and effort. 

“....and I was foolish, prideful, I _beg_ you to pardon me. You had _never_ given me a task before… and it was St. Cyprian’s Night! I was unwise. I trusted the seals of Evorá to give me strength enough to return to your bed. The Post Daughters had always cast their seals, even unto the very day that they departed! I thought, certainly, I could feed as soon as I returned to the land. Then I would have strength enough to return to you, how could I not return to you...”

“Oh, I think I get it, the seal of Berthwald was stronger than you thought. So took more effort than you thought to get across. But you _did_ get across, you made those dreams.”

“Oh, such dreams I made Master Peter…”

“But I didn’t know making dreams took so much out of you. You were so weak the first time we spoke in a dream. You had hardly fed at all.”

“To enter a dream existing, it is a little matter. I stepped into your delightful dream of the dark castle. You _welcomed_ me there, you looked for me there. To make a new dream? That takes great effort, so much effort. But oh, _see_ how I faired, Master Peter! See how I faired! See the tapestry I wove for you. I am a very skilled weaver. The Post daughters made me very skilled. So many sweet dreams I wove for them, all their neighbors _loved_ the Post Daughters. Doted upon them. Make me your beloved, Master Peter, for I served you so well. The DeSlaughter lad will never speak ill of your house again…”

On some matters Tony was clearly reluctant to speak… but he described his dreamweaving with pride. He reminded Peter of the kids in his old school in New York City describing their science fair projects in ridiculous detail. When you created it, and it worked, you had a reason to be proud. 

Tony was proud.

As Peter listened he marveled at Tony’s skill. How the demon appealed to both hopes and fears. To the best instincts of the person he was manipulating. To not just search for their fear, and utilize it, but to also search for their self-image. Peter had read a lot about a person’s self-image, how every person secretly thought they were the Hero of the story. Tony knew how to twist the story until the Hero had to be nice to Peter Parker. And all because generations of Post girls enjoyed using Tony to stop their neighbors from gossiping about their strange practices. Especially on St. Cyprian’s night.

As Tony described the dream he had used to convince Mike and Matthew DeSlaughter, a dream about a classroom (where they had unfortunately arrived without their clothes.) He described Mrs. DeSlaughter’s encounter with an orphanage from a stage play where the actors all sang to her, and Mr. DeSlaughter’s decent into a pit of snakes all seeking revenge, only to be rescued by Mike and Peter, his star students, who saved him utilizing all his revered teachings. As he spoke it became clear to Peter why Tony had been so foolish, had spent so much energy at the DeSlaughter house and leaving himself no strength to get home. How many times had Peter stayed up until 2 in the morning reading, or designing an invention in his notebooks, only to pay for it miserably in school the next day? Tony and he had more in common than he had ever realized. He wasn’t sure, yet, what to do with that information.

“But when it came to the little one, I was too weak. I could create no dream for her, so I entered her dream…”

“Let me guess. She dreamed that Superbarbie had to rescue me.”

“Yes, she dreams of superheroes, just as you do Master Peter. Her dreams are so much like yours... her heroes are strong, but they are also so clever. So very clever. But her heroes are very different. They are all under curses. They must stand on their tiptoes at all times. There can never be more than one on the team, and they can only wear skimpy bathing suits…”

He placed his fingers in Tony’s mouth again. Tony fed with a moan. Peter looked away, thinking.

Something was happening in his head, something he was desperately trying to ignore, even while it was happening. 

He couldn’t deny that it had been an incredible day. Aunt May had been as happy as he had ever seen her, feeding three boys at her kitchen table as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He thought about how Uncle Ben and Mr. DeSlaughter were still talking to each other long after the boys were ready to go home. How he had heard Uncle Ben laughing all the way from inside the house – something he also hadn’t heard since New York City. 

And then there was Peter. Being the center of attention at the DeSlaughter family. Being the tour guide at his own house. It was exhausting, of course, he wasn’t used to more than one person talking to him all at the same time, but he could make adjustments. Tony could make adjustments. Tony could arrange things just the way he wanted them.

It _wasn’t_ like the Twilight Zone, Peter realized as he pressed a kiss on Tony’s forehead. Tony wouldn’t grant his wishes in ways that were secretly horrible, because Tony was actually on his side. 

But Tony _could_ make mistakes, and that was sobering. Whatever else Tony was, he wasn’t all-knowing. Peter had to remember not to forget that.

Tony had finally stopped feeding. He pulled Peter’s fingers from his mouth and kissed the back of his hand. He reached out and stroked Peter’s face with hesitant fingers.

“A great feast, many day’s worth, was the St. Cyprian feast,” Tony whispered. “All night there was feasting and dancing. Then at midnight the girls would gather in a circle and summon me and tell me all their secrets. The boys they wanted to come court them. The boys they wanted to _stop_ courting them. They told me all they wished their parents would allow them, but I could not enter their parents’ dreams without announcing myself…”

“…because their parents already knew your tricks. Because they had done the same thing when they were younger. 

“Alright, Tony. I think I get it. I said I wanted Mike to stop talking about me behind my back, and that was a normal Post-thing to ask for at this time of year. But you still haven’t told me why you killed my dog. I _explained_ the difference between pets and not-pets. If it has a name, then it is a pet. We talked about this.”

Tony’s eyes closed wearily and he turned his head a little. He was clearly ashamed. Peter caressed the side of his face, running a thumb across the pale lips.

“I’ll let you rest, I promise. I’ll turn around and you can hold me in your arms and feed all night if you want. But first I need to understand, Tony. Last night I dreamed about you and you sounded _panicked_. Help me understand what happened.”

“I failed you, Master Peter,” Tony whispered, turning and kissing his hand. “I tarried too long. My dreamweaving was most excellent, but I tarried until almost dawn. Back to the land I went, but the seals of Evorá there could not feed me. The eastern seals were each dry cisterns. I fed as much as I could. I was determined to return to your bed…”

“But you killed all those animals, and you didn’t even stay and consume the bodies…”

“No time! To consume them all takes time. The sunrise would catch me, I am not strong enough to hide in morning shadows. I took what I could. I rushed home to you, Master Peter. I longed for you, I rushed home to you…”

He fell quiet, but Peter did not speak. He stroked Tony’s face, waiting.

“I came to the house. The sun was shining. I was blind. I was desperate. I did not know what I had done until I felt the pain…”

He put a weak hand on his chest, his fingers slipping into the opening of his shirt. When Peter saw what he was pointing at, his eyes went wide.

Tony was wearing the same white, old-fashioned shirt he always wore, with blousy sleeves, a large neck and slit down the front. Tonight Tony’s body was pale and thin, and when Peter pushed the shirt open it revealed a great deal of his neck and chest, including a deep, circular scar in the center that Peter had never seen before.

“Tony… how… _what_?!” Peter gasped, pushing the shirt aside in an attempt to see all of it. The scar looked old but angry, forming a white puckered circle in the center of Tony’s hollow chest with jagged lines emanating from it in all directions. He allowed Peter to examine it without comment, looking into his face with tired eyes. 

“How did this happen?” Peter asked finally, his head swimming, covering the scar with one hand, as if, by hiding it from view he could make it go away. 

“If it has a name, it is a pet,” Tony whispered, touching Peter’s hand apologetically. “I was blind. I did not know what I had fed upon until the pain pierced me to the core. I had disobeyed my master. But still I _returned_ to you, I _will_ serve you well, you _will_ give me pardon sweet Peter…” 

Peter moaned and buried his face in Tony’s chest while he spoke. Tears formed behind his eyes as Tony argued why he should be forgiven. Tony had described the pain that the Post Patriarch had subjected him too if he disobeyed commands, even if the commands contradicted each other. Peter had been disgusted by the idea. His stomach knotted as he understood -- Tony wasn’t weak because he had over-exerted himself, he was weak because he was _injured_. 

Peter kissed the scar, covered it with his hand again and looked up.

“Tony I never… I _never_ would have done this to you… I’d never hurt you. I don’t understand. _I’m not your master…_

“I didn’t mean it like that, no…” he said quickly as Tony’s face crumpled. Seized with a sudden understanding Peter pulled the frail body close and held the man tightly to his chest as Tony begged and pleaded, sometimes in English, sometimes in German. With one solid arm across the man’s back Peter held their bodies together, with his other hand he rubbed circles in between the pronounced shoulder blades, sometimes pausing to comb his fingers through the salt-and-peppered hair, shushing him.

“That’s not what I meant. That’s _not_ what I meant, **_stop._ ** Tony... shhhh….”

Peter rocked the shivering man for some time, trying to get his thoughts into order. Finally he loosened his grip, smoothed Tony’s hair away from his face and spoke.

“Tony, when I came here I was 13 and I was a _basket case_ . I cried all the time. I cried, like, every week. I cried when I found out that the neighbors were raising rabbits, not for pets but to eat. I cried when May and Ben decided not to raise chickens because I would get too attached to the chickens and cry when we ate them. And then I cried because I knew they were right. I cried almost once a week. And that was _before_ my first day at Robert E Lee K-12. 

“I was reading books out loud in my room because I had to do _something_ other than cry all the time. But then I’d read about the endangered animals and that just made it start all over again. So I read Mad Magazine and Erma Bombeck just so I could feel something other than despair and pain. And then you started talking to me and I started talking back because _I needed you_ , Tony. I needed someone to talk to, and you were there.

“You’re my _best friend_ , Tony. That’s what I mean when I say... I can’t understand how I’m your… _I’m not a magician_. I don’t have any… I never read any of those books that Evan Post burned and put in the lake. I’m confused. I thought you called me “Master Peter” because…”

He closed his mouth hard. He had let Tony call him “Master Peter” for the same reason Batman let Alfred call him “Master Wayne.” 

Besides, he kind of liked it. But it had never occurred to him that...

“You fed me. You called to me,” Tony was saying gently, stroking Peter’s face with long, slender fingers. “You conjured me from under the bed. _You named me_. I am yours, now.”

“But I’m not even a Post.”

“But still, I am yours.”

“But I would never do _this_ to you,” Peter said, forcing himself to look at the white scar beneath his hand. 

“It is the nature of the spell that called me to this plane,” Tony whispered, nuzzling the top of Peter’s head. Peter felt, strangely, as if Tony were comforting _him_ now. He leaned down to kiss the raised white lines against the pale skin. He realized that meant he was kissing the man’s bare chest, but that didn’t feel strange to him. That didn’t feel strange at all.

“Alright,” he said finally, laying his face gently upon the center of Tony’s chest. “Tell me how to heal you.”

“Let me sleep. Do not call upon me on the morrow, or the next. Feed me as you did at Mabon. Let me rest, Master Peter, let me rest and then I will serve you well.”

“Okay,” Peter said, kissing Tony on the top of the head, pulling him back into his arms and rocking him slightly. “You can rest. You can rest as much as you want. And I’m not going to “call on” you, but I am going to give you something to think about. (He winced when he realized he was quoting Aunt May word for word, but he plowed ahead anyway.)

“When you are better you are going to explain to me how this works. How _all_ of it works. In detail. And you are never to cross any seals unless you check with me to see if it's necessary, and to tell me how much feeding it’s going to take for you to be strong enough to do it.

“And you are not going to do ANYTHING I ask you to unless I say the words: “Tony, I need you to do this for me. I really, really, seriously, for-serious, Just Say No-joke, _really_ really mean it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The books of St. Berthwald are of my own invention.
> 
> The Book(s) of St. Cyprian are a fascinating subject about which I now know way too much and am happy to answer questions about. They are also real books that can be bought online or found in PDF format. Inside you will NOT find spells about summoning and/or feeding Demon!Tony and convincing him to live under your bed.
> 
> However, ALL spellbooks from Portugal are referred to as a "Book of St. Cyprian" so, maybe, somewhere, such a book really does exist...
> 
> \--------------
> 
> Thanks to von-gelmini for yet another amazing moodboard.

**Author's Note:**

> Some AO3 authors do not care for constructive criticism. Constructive criticism must be requested.
> 
> I HOWEVER FEED ON IT THE WAY A DEMON FEEDS ON LIGHT so please, PLEASE, feed me your questions, your confusion, and your constructive crit -- I am constantly trying to improve my work.  
> \---------------------------------------------------
> 
> This is me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thestarkerisobvious
> 
> Come by -- I won't make fun of you for being afraid of acid rain.


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